


Bottle Baby

by moonstones42



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstones42/pseuds/moonstones42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Crowley expects to gain  from online dating is a lifelong friendship with a scrawny 20-something human named Vines. But as discontent within Crowley's kingdom grows and tensions continue rise in hell, the two help each other repair their tattered relationships, discover new experiences, and finally begin to understand what truly matters in the greater scheme of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Addicted to Love

The reigning King of Hell had never imagined he’d develop an online dating addiction.

He’d created the account months ago, as a means of drawing in that Sheriff woman Moose and Squirrel seemed so pitifully attached to. He’d gotten bored one evening and returned to the website just for kicks, merely to entertain himself by making fun of the sorry people who had to stoop to Internet dating just to get some action.

But after observing various couples engage in successful encounters and begin real relationships together, he’d begun to notice a distinct hollowness, a sense of aching vacancy, deep in his core. He’d lay awake at night wondering what exactly had drawn Joan to Travis, what aspect of Michael’s profile had prompted Luanne to click “accept” and meet up for a date, how much Jerry and Dave possibly could have had in common to result in an engagement after just three months. It had taken Crowley weeks to admit it to himself, but he craved some sort of connection akin to that of Ida and Raymond, Rachel and Olivia, Ben and Elaine, Ulna and Peter. He didn’t want a storybook romance, he didn’t want senseless passion, he didn’t want one-dimensional infatuation.

But he did want something. He wanted…he wanted to be loved. He deserved to be loved.

And so he’d transitioned from wallowing in loneliness each night to spending hours on end prowling Match.com. Hunched over his laptop in the darkness of his office, he’d constantly refresh his profile, pining after the barest of contact from any one of the thousands of people who seemed to interact with every lonely soul save him.

He’d manage to hold himself together most nights, clicking and scrolling until around 2:56 AM without incident; he’d more or less gotten used to the nearly tangible loneliness that surrounded him like a thick cloud, soggy and cold against his skin.

But one night late in November, around the time those bloody annoying Christmas ads would explode across his screen and blare irritating jingles from his speakers every time he refreshed the page, just a few hours on the website had left him weeping into a half-empty bottle of Craig. He couldn’t pinpoint where the torrent of emotion had come from, but he’d given up on holding it in, telling himself that even the strongest of blokes needed a good cry every now and again. He refrained from dwelling on the fact that a more virile man wouldn’t breakdown at the sight of too many cheerful couples in matching Santa hats and snowman sweaters.

“Hey, Boss, the a few of the guys working C Level are complaining about the HBO subscription—“

Crowley chucked the bottle of Craig across the room as one of his men barged into his office without knocking, the thick glass shattering against the far wall in an explosion of amber liquid.

“Get out!” he shouted, his voice noticeably shaky and strained from his pitiful weeping. The door slammed shut a moment later as his idiotic minion sprinted from the room, and Crowley let out a heavy sob as he collapsed onto his desk with equal parts exhaustion and shame. He was pathetic, absolutely pathetic. And he’d just wasted an entire bottle of his favorite drink in the outburst that he’d hoped might have allowed him to vent some of his emotion.

But alas, he only felt all the more wretched now as he lay slumped over his keyboard, having obliterated the one steady (albeit liquid) source of solace he’d ever had. He did his best not to cry too loudly, as he was decidedly not in the mood to intimidate the demon lackeys he knew would gather on the other side of the door to mock their infantile, weeping King.

Perhaps he’d go out for a quick maiming spree; massacring small Irish villages had always been enough to raise his spirits in the past. He probably didn’t have time for a full-scale slaughter—he did still have duties to attend to in the morning, after all—but quickly annihilating a family of four could be just what he needed.

Crowley had finally ceased his bawling and was about to heave himself out of his plush leather armchair when he heard a slightly muffled “ping!” from where the tailored cloth of his sleeve had covered his computer speaker.

He jerked upright in his seat, nearly tumbling to the ground as his swivel chair rolled backwards so fast it rammed into the bookshelf behind his desk. Ignoring the few books that rained down around him, he paid no heed to the pounding pressure on his temples or the way his stomach churned in protest as he awkwardly shuffled back towards his desk as fast as he could without vacating his chair.

Doing his best to pull himself together after that rather embarrassing reaction, Crowley straightened his blazer in a vain attempt to regain a bit of dignity.  His stomach did another vaulting leap, and he sternly told himself that the king of hell would not be reduced to a vomiting mess when met with an obstacle as ordinary as alcohol poisoning. He let out a low belch instead, pretending not to be impressed by the slight echo the heavy baritone burp had created.

After a bit more preening and a few more seconds to get himself situated—in other words, blatantly stalling to put off the inevitable—he finally turned his attention to his computer screen. He searched with bleary eyes, fighting against his swimming vision until he finally spotted a small blinking icon with the number “1” hanging over the tab “Messages”.

Crowley channeled the entirety of his newfound energy into not getting too excited. He’d already made that mistake once before, upon receiving an impersonal and blatantly automated memo of thanks from the website praising him for his avid involvement and nearly constant presence on the site. And as if that hadn’t been humiliating enough, he’d received that message after only two weeks of having an account. But, strangely enough, that stab with a poisoned lance to his pride had not deterred him from frequenting the dating site for another three months.

And now here he was, faced with yet another memo as he desperately tried not to get his hopes up. He knew it was unlikely that the site’s automated thank-you notes would find their way to him yet again, but the only other explanation for this message’s arrival was entirely out of the question.

He hesitantly scooted a bit closer to the computer, then hovered his mouse over the tab. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and felt a bit like that ridiculous teenaged girl Becky he’d kept an eye on for a while as his heart stuttered in his chest. But the surge of a Craig-flavored hiccup sent a quick shudder through his body that was unexpected and jarring enough to push away his anxiety for just a long enough to prompt action.

“What the hell,” he muttered to himself in a miserable and tear-torn voice. He stabbed his index finger down on the mouse and clicked open the message.

*~*~*~*~*

Two hundred fifty six words.

No name, no picture, not even a box checked in the section designated "gender". But in just two hundred and fifty six words, Crowley knew he'd made the right choice in not deleting the message without reading it.

He'd initially suspected that perhaps the Winchesters had crafted the short paragraph in a rather roundabout form of attack, or perhaps merely as a particularly cruel prank. But it was now shockingly clear to him that Moose & Co. had not been responsible for this tiny break in the dense clouds that had all but eliminated all sources of light in Crowley’s life. A message crafted by the Winchesters would have involved an attempt to lure him in with traits they assumed he would have found enticing. If nothing else, they certainly would have requested a meet-up as a trap or even as a means of public humiliation.

But the unknown author of this note was quite plainly and entirely ordinary. They harbored no desperate hunger for power, no all-consuming need to control, and didn’t seem to possess a single ounce of ambition. In other words, they were as far from what one would peg as Crowley’s “type” as possible.

And yet there was something about this stranger that Crowley couldn’t quite place, something that motivated his eyes to read the message again and again. Despite their total lack of shared interests, Crowley could not ignore the inexplicable need to become….acquaintances would involve too much risk. But he desperately wanted to engage in some sort of companionable interaction with this stranger.

After a few more minutes of re-reading the message, Crowley closed his laptop screen and leaned back in his chair. He stared up into the darkness overhead as his muddled mind attempted to uncover any possible reason for why he’d want to connect with someone so indisputably dull.

He let out an annoyed huff when his brain finally made the connection, and he found that he was entirely unable to push away the realization now that it had planted itself firmly in the forefront of his mind.

It was really quite obvious, but that only made it all the more humiliating to own up to.

He and this stranger both shared the same loneliness. They harbored the same craving for some sort of non-hostile, truly honest interaction with another being. Neither of them had any need for the childish myth of romance, no desire to throw away reason in the vain hope of gaining indisputable proof that happiness does in fact exist.

Crowley of course had plenty of means of entertainment; from popping down and joining in on the best torture on R Level to making deals with the most desperate bunch he’d ever encountered in Somalia, there was really never a dull moment in the life of the King.

That is, the excitement continued as long as he kept moving, as long as he never stopped to think or feel or live. The moment he paused for a breath, the loneliness would come back full-force. And it seemed as if it only increased in severity each time.

He doubted someone so mundane even for a human could ever provide him with the uninterrupted buzz he’d require to keep him from tumbling farther into despair.

But although he hardly knew this painfully uninteresting person, although he's done nothing but push away this loneliness for centuries, Crowley felt as if perhaps one day, in the distant future, he could learn to confide in this fellow solitary soul.

And so he reopened his laptop screen, flexed his fingers, and began to devise a response.

Because, ordinary or not, Crowley was almost certain that he’d somehow stumbled upon someone who’d finally be able to convince him that out of all of earth’s inhabitants, a miserable demon who made a hobby of deceit truly does matter.

* * *

Dmitry Baskov lived alone. But not in the way the average 25 year old male in the ever-dreary city of Seattle lived alone. His lonesomeness did not originate from the fact that he was the sole inhabitant of his cluttered one-room apartment. No, Dmitry genuinely lived a life of solitude, only receiving the barest interaction with other members of his species from within the darkened inner cavity of a movie theater ticket booth.

He also did not go by “Dmitry”. It was his legal name, the moniker his mother had chosen for the unsettlingly silent baby that had stared up at her with large dark eyes—the baby that she might have smiled down at in that split second before she’d chosen not to love him. No, for the past ten years since he’d left home, he’d gone by Vines.

At a soaring 6’4 and only 200 pounds, he’d grown as fast and narrow as a vine. It also didn’t hurt that Red Vines happened to be his all-time favorite candy. He’d come up with the nickname himself, after thankfully crossing “Tree” off the list almost as soon as the idea had entered his mind. But if anyone asked, Vines was prepared to say his friends had been the ones to come up with the rather unusual name.

The only flaw in this plan? Vines did not in fact possess a single friend.

And no one had ever bothered to ask.

Vines was of course a very proficient expert at self-deception, and had long ago convinced himself that the daily reminder of his total solitude that was conveyed even in the name he’d chosen for himself did not bother him. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. He never thought twice about it.

He was content.

Deception or not, Vines was not entirely miserable. At least, not always.

Along with consistently providing customers with proper change whenever he worked the cash register, Vines listed his writing ability as one of his most noteworthy achievements, and one of the few things he allowed himself to take pride in. He spent nearly all of his free time with pen and paper in hand or his spidery fingers dancing across a keyboard, and he mostly focused on drafting poetry or crafting songs that he’d post on YouTube.

He didn’t consider himself exceptionally talented as far as his vocal abilities were concerned, but Vines was determined to make even the tiniest of positive impacts on the lives of others—despite the fact that they didn’t seem to want anything to do with him.

Along with songs and poetry, Vines also made a point of reaching out to the more despondent strangers on dating sites. Whenever he was feeling particularly down, he’d take a scorching hot shower, gulp down half a mug of tea before it had cooled or his inky black hair had even dried, then light up a joint and log on to Match.com.

It was after going through this rather odd ritual one night, around the time of year when his neighbors had begun hanging wreaths on their apartment doors and planning the obnoxious holiday parties that Vines knew he would not receive invitations to, that Vines received a response to the message he’d sent just thirty minutes before.

His joint fell from his mouth as he stared at the screen in shock, but he didn’t bother trying to catch it before it fell into his half-empty cup of tea (it was cheap stuff anyway; he’d bought it from Steve in the alley behind the theater only because he’d been too lazy to trek down to the waterfront for a higher quality product). After the dozens of messages he’d left for lonely people on the website, Vines had never actually had anyone actually respond to any of them.

Well, other than Marla. Vines didn’t usually count Marla. The elderly woman had been one of the first people he’d contacted when he’d begun this odd form of unrequited group therapy, and she still sent him a cat calendar every year as a thank you for his kind words. So no, Vines didn’t really consider Marla’s annual UPS package a real form of response. He did still make use of the calendar, though; kittens performing various acts of everyday human life are cute, especially when you’re high.

Steering his thoughts away from his feline wall decorations, Vines lay back into the cushions of his threadbare couch and hefted his laptop from the worn coffee table onto his lap. After a few failed attempts to click open the message without his laptop tipping off of his bent knees and crashing into his face, Vines finally began to read.

Some fifteen minutes later, Vines had decided he’d like to get to know this middle aged male who went by Frank McLeay. According to his profile, Frank apparently spent most of his time on the job—although he’d neglected to reveal exactly what that job entailed— but liked to relax with a nice dinner, a Game of Thrones marathon, and a glass of Craig. Vines had devoured the existing five books of A Song of Ice and Fire, and he quite enjoyed the show; if nothing else, at least this Frank fellow had good taste in television.

But while Vines tried his best to only ponder the surface knowledge he’d discovered about this Frank fellow, there was only so much time he could spend thinking about exactly what “middle aged” meant before he was forced to consider the deeper implications of Frank’s response.

Frank was alone. And not even complacently alone, or at what seemed to be the unattainable status of happily alone. No, Frank was in pain—a pain so palpable that Vines, a total stranger, had been able to sense it even in the 140 word response Frank had penned.

Of course, Vines did have a rather notable advantage as far as recognizing loners; ‘takes one to know one’ and all that jazz (who would’ve guessed such a bothersome Kindergarten proverb could assist in such deep self-reflection?). He didn’t feel sorry for Frank, or pity his clear need, or perhaps even desperation, for companionship. Rather, Vines felt as if he could relate to this man.

What’s more, it seemed as if Frank had been on a long and wearisome search for someone he could rely on. Vines had gone his whole life being ignored, being pushed aside, getting walked on and passed over—more or less the same response he’d received from everyone on this website (save Marla and the kittens). Vines had never been relied upon, never been needed before.

And so he decided right then and there, as his forgotten joint turned his tea from lukewarm dark amber to a foul watery brown, that he would become someone Frank could depend on.


	2. Bureaucracy

“You are aware that the more exciting things only ever happen on the lower levels?”

Nike didn’t bother to acknowledge Lorenzo’s words, keeping her gaze focused on the serpentine queue of lethargic souls waiting for processing and registration. She took the Starbucks coffee cup he offered her, but still didn’t bother looking away from the masses of blank-faced people awaiting admission into the place she’d called home for the past 1,300 years.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t come up here for the adrenaline rush,” she told him, leaning forward to rest her forearms on the observation deck’s cool metal railing. She took a sip of the coffee, then wrinkled her nose as the bitter liquid assaulted her taste buds.  

“I thought I made it clear that I needed Peppermint Mocha to help me get over the loss of the Pumpkin Spice blend,” she told him in annoyance, only gracing Lorenzo with her full attention now that the sanctity of her morning brew had been defiled.

“They’re back to their regular menu now that the holidays are over,” Lorenzo responded with a shrug as he took a swig of his own drink, and Nike scowled down at the standard white cup in her hand. The only bearable aspect of Christmas had been the short period of actually decent coffee; now she was left with an overpriced caffeine source that any self-respecting Columbian or Ethiopian would surely scoff at.

“Fine. So did you come all the way up to A Level just to revel in the loss of one of the few things that has ever brought me joy?” Nike questioned mournfully, melodramatically tossing her cup of liquid abomination over the railing. She held the back of her hand against her forehead with a forlorn sigh for an extra touch of flair.  

“No, although that was certainly an added benefit. Something’s going on with the boss. Last night Bryan came running back to my room crying--”

“Was this before or after you fucked him?” Nike casually interrupted, more because she enjoyed mocking Lorenzo’s hyperactive sex life than because she was genuinely interested.  

It was commonly known among the higher levels of Hell’s bureaucracy that Lorenzo was into boys. Not young boys, of course--pedophelia was not and never had been condoned in hell; even demons weren’t that evil. No, Lorenzo had a particular taste for the 18-25 age bracket: a group that Nike, and really anyone outside of the demographic, would still consider boys.

“Before. But that’s not the point,” Lorenzo responded, waiving away her question. “Something’s going on with the boss, and I think we need to--”

Nike turned away from Lorenzo at the sound of the observation deck’s glass doors sliding open, and it took her a moment to recognize the figure who stepped through the threshold.

She’d already encountered Ruben twice since they’d both returned from their respective vacation days, but she still hadn’t gotten used to the new meat suit he’d picked up in London. The thick dark hair, glasses, and cardigan made for a very bookish and unassuming appearance, which Nike was entirely sure the ever-scheming demon had intended. To those whom he did not know personally, Ruben would now appear intelligent but unthreatening and naive--effectively cloaking his true ambitious and ruthless personality.

Clearly Ruben had taken Lady MacBeth’s advice to “look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't” to heart.  Of course, Nike recalled with a slight twinge of discomfort, the Thaness of Cawdor’s treacherous words of wisdom hadn’t boded too well for King Duncan…

“Ruben! You’ve arrived just in time to hear Lorenzo’s new theory,” Nike called as the young man entered the room, and she came forward to loop her arm through his and lead him towards the balcony. “He has discovered--you won’t believe this,” Nike gushed with blatantly mocking excitement. “Our very own Lorenzo has discovered that the amount of tears shed by each of his boyfriends can accurately predict the boss’s well-being,” she cried, fanning back imaginary tears of pride.

Ruben lifted his steaming tea mug towards Lorenzo with a smile, wordlessly congratulating his fellow demon on a job well done.

“Will the two of you quit joking around and just listen to me?” Lorenzo exploded, his Spanish accent thickening as it always did whenever he became flustered.

Nike supposed the accent (and the rage) was one of the side-effects of Lorenzo’s obsession with his father, Hernan Cortez; Lorenzo had possessed a retired Spanish soccer player in a misplaced desire to embrace his conquistador roots. Nike had opted for a Nigerian beauty as a tribute to her own West African origins, and had quite enjoyed the high cheekbones, smooth dark skin, and athletic build...while Lorenzo’s daddy issues had only gotten him a beer belly and a lisp.

“You’ve both been gone for the past few weeks--nice job taking your vacation days at the same time and leaving me here stuck with all the work, by the way-- so you haven’t been around to notice all the changes. But something is definitely different about the boss. First there was the despondency and depression, and now… Well, you guys were here when that started, but after you left he only got worse. And then, last month with Bryan, that’s when things got...weird.”

“That’s when his boyfriends started crying before they had to endure two minutes alone with him,” Nike explained in a stage-whisper to Ruben, who snorted into his tea.

“This is serious,” Lorenzo shouted, giving a petulant stomp of the designer loafers he’d had imported from Barcelona (Lorenzo refused to wear or ingest anything not designed, produced, and/or shipped from Spain; he went topside every morning to pick up Starbucks for Nike, but always made a pit-stop in Madrid for his own drink).

“So the boss no longer cries himself to sleep. I see no harm in his self-esteem returning to a healthy level,” Ruben commented, apparently deciding to humor Lorenzo for at least a moment. Oddly enough, Ruben’s acknowledgement of Lorenzo’s point, when spoken in his new upper class London accent, legitimized Lorenzo’s argument in a way little else could have. Nike smiled to herself as she considered that Ruben’s new speech pattern might soon become Hell’s Helen of Troy; Nike was sure anyone would sail a thousand ships for that rich baritone in a heartbeat.

“It’s more than that, though. It’s not as if he felt down for a while and has now returned to normal.”

“What is it, then? What’s wrong with him?” Nike questioned, deciding she might as well take this seriously; Lorenzo seemed quite agitated, and teasing him about it was no fun if Ruben had given up the game. Plus, as the King’s three most senior advisors, if there really was a problem, it was their duty to find a solution and assess any damage that had already been done. The longer they avoided an issue, the more shit they’d end up having to clean up when all was said and done.

“It’s hard to explain. He’s very...well, he’s very distracted. Constantly on his phone, on his laptop--”

“Hang on, you’re upset because the boss likes to play Candy Crush and update his twitter during your reports on the D Double-H P?” Ruben asked incredulously, and Lorenzo practically bounced up and down in frustration.

“No, no, no, that’s not what I’m saying! And the boss actually quite enjoys my reports on the Demon Health and Happiness Project; just last week we had Jonas install a nacho cheese dispenser next to the fresh tortilla chip oven on U Level, and since then the torture efficiency down there has improved exponentially. But that’s not the point!” Lorenzo suddenly shouted after a few moments of pleased contemplation, having gotten considerably off track .

“I’m saying that there’s something wrong with him. It’s not just that he’s constantly looking at his phone, trailing off when he’s in the middle his own sentences. He’s forgetting to attend important policy meetings because he’s so busy typing away at his computer, he’s misinterpreting even the simplest reports from up top because he spends all his time thinking about something else. And, last week, he even turned down the chance to wipe Netflix off the map,” Lorenzo finished, and Nike felt her stomach drop at that last sentence.

Sure, the other offenses had been pretty bad; the King of Hell had an entire plane of reality to run, and if he started to slack off, his carelessness was bound to start showing in potentially detrimental ways. For example, if he misinterpreted just one statistic, the lives of hundreds of demons up top could be in danger--there was a reason only the best and the brightest became the ruler of hell.

But Lorenzo’s last point about Netflix had erased any doubts Nike had possessed about the severity of this issue. Every inhabitant of hell, even the mindless zombies of A Level who roamed about waiting to be processed just below where the three demons currently stood, knew about the King’s undying abhorrence for Netflix. The King had even gone so far as to create an entirely new and separate torture network, 1-4 Levels, for all supporters and consumers of Netflix that were unlucky enough to find themselves in Hell under his reign.

As HBO’s number one competitor for television distribution, Netflix was despised and reviled by all of hell’s inhabitants. The online streaming and DVD ordering service may have begun as a means of easily accessing a variety of television shows, but Netflix had recently begun creating its own Emmy-Award-poaching original series--thus intruding on HBO’s territory. The mere mention of the recent success of shows like Orange Is The New Black and House Of Cards was more than enough to send any demon on a hateful and potentially violent rant. And no one had been more adamant about a need to annihilate Netflix than the King himself.

So the fact that he’d neglected to destroy the enterprise when he’d had the chance, that he’d decided against returning the domain of quality television under the rightful ownership of HBO, was the most unsettling news Nike had encountered since she’d heard that Sarah Palin might become Vice President of the United States.

“Something needs to be done,” Ruben announced in a grave tone, his shoulders having relaxed only marginally after they’d tensed at Lorenzo’s final statement.

“We need to find out what on his phone and computer could be so damned interesting that he’d turn into someone so decidedly unlike himself,” Lorenzo advised, and the other two demons nodded in solemn agreement.

“So, who wants to be in charge of hacking into the King of Hell’s personal phone and laptop?” Ruben asked dryly, and Nike’s finger immediately flew to her face.

Ruben quickly followed suit, but Lorenzo hesitated for just a moment too long.

“You can’t be serious! I’ve been here working my ass off and actually looking after the King, while you’ve been out stealing the bodies of Cambridge coeds and taking cruises along the Mediterranean,” Lorenzo whined, pointing to Ruben and then Nike with an envious pout. “I shouldn’t have to do it!” Lorenzo protested, but Nike shook her head.

“Sorry, Lorenzo. We’re bound to abide by Hell’s official rules when it comes to distributing responsibility. We can’t go against the most well known and well respected law instigated by the King himself.”

“She’s right,” Ruben added. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s clearly written in the Declaration of the Rights of Demons, under the 6th Amendment: nose goes.”

* * *

 

 


End file.
